The Everlasting by Tim Lebbon Page A

could see or easily understand. But until now, he had been content not knowing.
    He reached behind the curtain and tried to make sure the window latch was in the locked position. For a few seconds his arm was in sight of anything outside, but he turned his head away in case he saw beyond the glass. He fiddled for the latch, found it already locked, and withdrew his arm. Out in the hallway he did the same, then into the dining room—checking that the patio doors were shut and locked, the side window latched—and finally the kitchen.
    He made another circuit, checking door locks and pinning the dining chairs beneath the door handles. He considered tipping the dining table onto its side and pushing it against the patio doors. It was a heavytable, oak inlaid with ceramic tiles, and he remembered that it usually needed the two of them to shift it. The thought of asking Helen to help dissuaded him from trying.
    Certain that the house was locked as tight as it could be, Scott sat at the kitchen table, held his head in his hands, and felt the pressure of the impossible coming to bear.
    For a while he lost himself. He cried, shook, shivered as the air in the house seemed to drop below freezing; then he started sweating. He tried to believe that he had seen nothing—that Papa’s letter had inspired strange visions and hallucinations—but he knew in his heart that was wrong. Something had changed, and everything felt different. Something—the letter, the muttering of those strange words Papa had sung in the woods so long ago—had lifted the veil and afforded Scott a glimpse of the greater reality.
    And he didn’t want to know. He wanted Helen, and peace. He did not want to believe that there were ghosts, because that implied that everlasting rest was not for everyone.
    Is Papa out there somewhere?
he thought. He liked to think not, but . . .
But someone made that letter come here, and someone tried to open the drawer
.
    â€œPapa?” Scott muttered, his voice distorted through the tears.
    There was no answer. He was not sure what he would have done if there had been.
    He cried some more, crossed his arms on the table, and buried his face in them. His heart thumped. He felt it dancing in his chest, pulsing where he was pressed against the table edge. He heard it, like the sound of a distant wooden barrel being beaten.
    The sound came closer. He breathed harder, faster, trying to drown the sound of his heart with his breaths, but it suddenly came from all around him, softly at first, then harsher and more urgent.
    Scott sat upright and looked around, and the sound did not stop. It was no longer in rhythm with his heart.
    The banging stopped and his heart raced on. He sat there for a while, wondering whether he’d imagined the sound. Perhaps he’d had his ear pressed against his arm in such a way that his heartbeat sounded like an echo. “No,” he said. However much he tried denying all this, he knew what was really happening.
    â€œBack door,” Helen said.
    Scott jumped from the chair and turned. His wife was leaning against the kitchen doorjamb, eyes slitted against the harsh light. “What?”
    â€œDoor. Back door. Someone’s knocking on it.”
    â€œYou heard that?”
    Helen nodded, then opened her eyes wider when she heard the stress in his voice. “Was that you?” she asked.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œBanging on the table?”
    â€œNo. Not me. Why would I?”
    â€œDon’t know,” she said. She ran her hand throughher hair, frowning. “I’m tired. Maybe we’re both dreaming this.” Then she went for the back door.
    â€œDon’t.” Scott stood in her way. She stopped before him and he held her shoulders, pulling her close. “Please don’t.”
    Helen shook her head and he felt her hair trailing across his face. “I’m so tired,” she said. “Put the kettle on, babe.”
    Scott